


Catch the sun before it's gone 3/?

by Abi_Sapien



Series: Catch the sun before it's gone [3]
Category: MMFR, Mad Max Fury road, Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Heavy Petting, M/M, Masturbation, Slight Violence, Smut, dubcon, emotionally constipated war boys, foul langugae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abi_Sapien/pseuds/Abi_Sapien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter 3: where Slit tries his hand at fixing the Nux Car and Nux definitely isn't jerking off to Slit fixing his car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch the sun before it's gone 3/?

The midday sun is merciless.  
The red sand turns bone white and the valley is a bowl of shimmering heat and death. Midday is the time of day, when everyone stays in the shadows. The wretched gather under the towering stone pillars and their makeshift shelters, they pile sand on them to keep them cooler. On a day like this the sand is so hot it can burn your skin on blisters.

War Boys have other things to attend to when the sun is high up on it's murderous route.  
It's cooler in the caverns. The deeper into the red rock you go, the cooler it gets. Darker, the colours start to fade away until it's pitch black and the odd island of red here and there, the flames smoking and giving a little light.

The maintenance bay and workshops are high up because they need the light, and well, the sun offers plenty of that. The heat is not so unbearable though: the stone walls are high, and the plantation up on top of the stone pillar leaks moisture and lends a cooling, eerily green shadow to the tinkering boys working at the bay.

This particular small, dusty slot is for their car. It was almost completely destroyed during the last haul, and ended up getting towed back to the Citadel. Extremely mediocre. Almost sent him packing off to Walhalla, too, but only just, and he's still here. It still makes Nux cringe. Took most of his fine-tuned turbo-installments out, too. He shakes his head sadly at the thought. All the days and nights he put thinking and working it all up.

It's so quiet. Most of his brothers are deeper inside the caverns, escaping the sun and spending their precious time doing whatever. Nux actually likes it better like this, he likes when it's really quiet, because it's so very rare. His whole world, his whole existence, their existence, is one roaring V8-engine, revved to the max, speeding towards the awaited end, towards Walhalla and eternal glory and shine.

He shadows his eyes against the glaring burn of the sun above and thinks about just sitting down for a while, in the shadow of the greenthings up above. He likes to look at them flickering in the breeze. Since he bashed his head he's appreciated the quiet more than he ever thought he would. He's almost gotten used to the humming sound inside his head – like his skull was still reverbrating the sound of the impact – his head on the ground, the explosive tearing at their car, the gates of Walhalla almost, almost slamming open – and then shut, right in front of his nose.

A piercing, metallic clang and a startled yelp. Startled, Nux drops his hand and turns towards the sound. He's standing in a roughly formed narrow corridor that joined two of the smaller slots together and could not see properly inside the slot, except for the front tyre of his beloved, now sadly mauled and pieced together ride.

Somebody was already in the small slot with the busted vehicle and doing a shit job, judging by the litany of profanities that follows the sound. Nux feels the corners of his mouth twitch. There was no-one else, who lived their half-life fueled by such blistering fury than his lancer, who had probably been bored by the midday quiet and decided entertain himself by unsuccessfully tinkering with the apple of Nux's eye.

Nux stretches his neck to see past the huge boulder that passes for a wall between the slot and the corridor, that curves down and into the cooler darkness of the pillar's other workshops.  
The misshapen bonnet is leaning against the wall, the dusty, red stone floor is littered with dirty equipment and Slit has disappeared inside the motor bay except for his skinny black-clad arse, pointing towards the searingly blue sky up above, and flailing legs that are helplessly hanging above the ground. An endless string of muffled, heartfelt curses accompanies the sound of wrenches slipping off bolts and falling out of reach on the floor under the car.

Nux has to press his palm against his mouth to stop the exhilarated giggle that bubbles up his stomach. He slowly lowers himself down to see what's happening under the car and can only see his mate's groping hand grabbing fistfuls of air and dust. It takes every effort Nux can muster, not to laugh out loud at the brilliant stupidity of his lancer.

Biting his tongue to keep quiet, he retreats back behind the boulder and lets himself laugh silently, his back pressed against the rough cool of the stone ja both hands clamped over his grinning mouth. Luckily, Slit is just smart enough to not hoist the car up while he is alone and go under it and die a spectacularly inglorious death. For a moment Nux feels he needs to go and give his poor mate a hand (he then remembers the fruitlessly groping hand fumbling under the car) and he decides against it, his eyes tearing up with stifled giggles.

It's time that Slit learned to take some responsibility and learn to be a proper Blackthumb. Their brothers had already done all the welding and cleaning, while Nux was recovering, and Nux had already done most of the fine tuning – the carborator was busted and even Slit could handle that if he tried a little. Nux himself could fix the boosters later after letting Slit do all the deathly dull dirty work (Nux had taken apart and put back together at least a fuckton of engines. Enough to not have the words for numbers like that).

He then catches his breath, trying not to cough too loudly, even though the sounds of metal hitting metal and metal hitting stone and the snake-hissing of the curses Slit uses to coax the equipment to work for his benefit mask any other sound in the bay and the corridor. The coughing threatens to take his breath away again, so Nux presses his hand, fingers splayed, against his chest and concentrates on getting the air in and then getting it out, without having to cough up parts of his lungs.

The white-hot sunling suddenly seems darker, and startled, Nux blinks his eyes several times, to make it seem more normal again, but the darkness lingers, and he starts to worry that the darkness will start to creep inside his head, starting from the corners of his eyesight, like that one time, and that other time, and that would mean that his countdown was on, that the engines were revving up to start the last race and he was –

He jerks up his head and stares, eyes wide and hurting because of the brightness through the open sunroof and the specks of greenery framing the slice of blue. A strange cloud, dark blue and thick like smoke, accompanied by a strange sound, like thousands of voices in the distance, or hands clapping.

He just has to grin happily, because then it means that it is not in his head, not now, but whatever that sound means, he welcomes it without fear, because it is cooler already. The air feels cooler and less burning-orange. It is easier to breathe already (though the air up here is always different than out there or underneath. It almost has a taste, sweet like mothers-milk, and it's not guzzolene, and it doesn't ever burn his lungs). Miss Giddy said that sometimes water came down from the clouds. Nux finds it hard to believe, but the greenthings – their leaves – tremble and shake and small, dark droplets of water pitter-patter on the rock all aroud Nux and on his skin, cool and exhilarating.

”What the ever-loving fuck is that.”

Nux hears Slit behind the wall, apparently looking up at the same blue-ball-of-smoke that seems to be drifting in the sky. Opens his palm for the water suddenly dripping down. There is almost no wonderment in Slit's hoarse voice. That's Slit for you. He treats mostly everything, new, old, backthen or tomorrow, with his usual slightly amused contempt. Nux finds it funny, the way Slit wants to appear really hard. Sometimes it feels like his mate with his face almost cut-in-half across his mouth and permanently bloodshot, misshapen eye looks at all their brothers like they were small and silly like tiny lizards scampering in the sand. Nux wonders if Slit has the stones to think of him like that too, like that he's a small thing, that knows nothing of big things.

Carefully Nux leans to peer from behind the corner of the boulder, to see what Slit is up to, since it's been quiet for a few heartbeats. Slit is standing and looking up, goggles over his eyes and a huge spanner (too big to use for anything in his car engine and Nux swallows like there is a furiously scuttling bug in his throat) propped over his shoulder. He is all white curves and angles and black shadows against the back wall unlit by the sunlight pouring from straight above. His pale, white-dusted, sinewy arms and chest and recently mauled stomach are smudged by streaks of dark – grease - since he decided to go for a swim inside the motor bay.

Slit snorts quietly, wipes the droplets off his goggles and promptly seems to forget about the water coming down. He drops the huge spanner (Nux suddenly finds it easier to breathe) and lets it fall to the ground like the slob he is, pushes both of his arms straight up in the air and stretches with a pleased grunt. His whole, usually more angular body elongates, seems to grow taller; the still-angry ghashes hastily stapled shut streaking the white, flat stomach, a couple of ribs visible under the taut skin that undulates with the movement.

Nux hardly realizes that he's moving his hand that was still pressed against his scarred chest. His fingertips find the bumps of his own ribs (the ones that have broken and healed and the ones that are still unbroken). The thought flutters through his head – how different are they, how different in bone, under their skin, how different – just yesterday morning, he should have felt, when spreading that white clay over the hunched back of his lancer, he should have felt, but he had no memory of the feeling, except for the cool, slightly gritty slide of the clay and the gust-of-wind-soft dust he patted off his hands, and then, the favour returned, Slit whitening and dusting him up. His hands –

Nux's eyes jump up with the thought and he sees that Slit is wearing tattered black leather gloves, loose around his wrists, a couple of fingertips missing and Slit's white-black-messed fingertips already bloodied from the work inside the machine.

Nux swallows like the bug is back in his throat. Slit examines his exposed fingers with an impassioned face (even though his crudely stitched scars make him look like he's eternally grinning at a joke that no-one else heard) and then absent-mindedly sucks the blood off the knuckle of his middle finger before turning his attention back to the motor splayed in front of him. He walks around the front of the car and turns his back to the boulder that hides Nux. A metallic clatter when he picks up some other tool and fits it around some other nut or bolt. Broad shoulders hunch down and silent curses now punctuate the rythmic rattling coming from inside the engine. The long, lean muscles in his back roll like sand dunes in hurricane.

Suddenly Nux feels hungry.  
He retreats, pushing his shoulder blades flat against the solid stone and his hand still stretched across his chest, feeling his own ribs without thinking. He can't be hungry, he just ate when the sun was climbing to it's apex.  
His stomach feels hollow and too hot, no, he's not hungry.

The sounds echo, sharp and tinny and turning unrecognizable, across the stony hall opening up around them. The slice of sunlight has started to burn orange again and it's creeping up the wall across the corridor. The green things create moving shadows around the spattering of light. The shadows flicker and Nux has to swallow air like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

He shifts his body, trying to be quiet, but the rustle of the rough fabric of his pants seem to almost pierce his eardrums. He forgets to breath again, grating his bare back against the rough stone and sending a drizzle of sandy dust and tiny pebbles down his bald head and shoulders, trying to angle his hips so that he could slip his hand under the waisband of his cargo pants, but the armada of belts make a quick entrance impossible.

He quietly, desperately smacks the back his head against the rock, but the sharp needle-puncture of pain that swells into a tide of nausea, reminding him of his recent injury, is not enough to stop him for more than a small gulp of air, again, he breathes through his nose like he is stealing oxygen, purses his scarred lips together and finally removes his hand from his side, because he needs both his hands to open the immortan _forsaken_ belt buckles, and he has to be quiet.

His fingers are too long and clumsy and the brass buckles click and clatter, but now there is more room, enough room, to slip one slender hand in there and grab his cock, suddenly thick and heavy and burning like grabbing an exhaust pipe in full run. It almost hurts, but not his hand like a searing-hot exhaust pipe would. It sends a hot flush down his thighs and up his abdomen, so quick and so hot that he has to sink his upper teeth to his lip just to keep from making a noise. His head jerks back and he hits his skull again, but the needle-sharp-swelling-nausea is distant and bleak in comparison to the throbbing heat pulsing in between his legs and in his fisted hand.

 _I am not jerking off to Slit fixing my car_ , Nux defiantly thinks out loud in his head that is now a pitch-black and bright-white jumble of half-formed thoughts and the thunder-low throb-throb-throbbing of an idling unsteady V8.

The metallic bangs and clangs are distorted, distant sounds somewhere in the edge of hearing. He knows he should be quick and efficient but he barely dares to move his hand, and when he does, the flickering behind his eyes screwed shut is that of bone-white against axle-grease-black, bloodied fingertips curled against worn leather. He probably makes a noise but he can't tell from the humming din in his ears.

There is a nudge to his hip.

The nudge is small but carries a promise of a very sharp kick and Nux pries his eyes open and looks up from his half-splayed position, back propped against the stone and legs spread across the corridor and his left hand in his pants. Slit cocks his head to the side, his betraying grin betraying absolutely nothing but his eyebrows knitting together over his pitch-blackened eyes. He is still holding something in his other hand, a great big monkey-wrench that still has patches of red paint on it and Nux decides to study the wrench instead of his mate's face. Meanwhile Nux ponders if he should let go of his cock and pull his hand from his pants or just remain cool and chrome like he was doing it on purpose.

” What are you doing,” Slit says. There's no question in his voice this time either.  
” Watching you making a great big stinking mess of my car,” Nux answers, squinting his eyes but unblinking and finally confronting Slit's shadowed stare.  
” Why don't you remove your hand from your fucking pants then,” Slit says, and this time there definitely is a wicked hint of a real grin on his face, the shit that he is.

Nux wants to challenge Slit and not do what he was just told to do, but his face feels odd and prickling and he is already slinking his hand from under the waistband of his pants and adjusting himself to nonchalantly getting up and dusting his legs. There is nothing nonchalant about the way he clambers to his knees when his unbelted trousers are falling off his hips and threatening to trip him though. He has to grab the waistband with his other hand as he's steadying himself with the other. All this time Slit keeps staring at him, a small amused grin still lingering on his face, and lazily swinging the monkey wrench in his hand. He then turns his head and looks over his shoulder like he heard something from the bay. Someone walking up to this scene, well, wouldn't that be a riot.

Nux is glad he's finally looking away and grapples at his belts, desperately wanting to clear his throat but not wanting to draw Slit's attention to himself again, so he swallows repeatedly and tries to command his slightly numb fingers to work properly. The corridor feels cramped and hot when they're both in there and now Nux just kind of wants to piss off completely.

” It's not that you yanking your shaft bothers me the least bit,” Slit mentions, still looking towards the opening to the workshop bay. Nux rolls his eyes silently, his face still feeling hot and odd, like he had gotten sunburn all over his cheeks and forehead. One of the belts is buckled and he can buckle the rest while he walks.

” Ain't I lucky”, Nux exhales as he lowers his head to push past Slit. Slit drops the wrench from his shoulder where he had rested it and with a slow measured movement, swings it towards Nux, until the red-spattered tool touches one of the belt buckles still hanging loose across his groin. The tiny metallic sound seems to stop time. Out of instinct Nux grabs the tool to fight it out of Slit's grasp, but Slit doesn't take the challenge. Why doesn't he take the challenge? Instead he's just staring at Nux again, his shaved head lowered, the goggles strapped across his forehead, so he has to look up from under his still-furrowed brow, one slanted blue-green eye and one bloodshot and pale.

” Did I instruct you to buckle up again, Nuts?”  
This time it is a question, delivered with a twitch on the corner of his twisted mouth.  
The monkey wrench is between them, Nux holding the head and Slit the handle. This time Nux yanks at the wrench and Slit, unprepared, has to stumble forwards, but he is quick on his feet and is already wrestling the wrench off Nux's hand.

” What? Do you want me to do you a little nakey dance while you destroy the motor?” Nux laughs at his face. He's not putting much effort to the scuffle, he's just trying to rile Slit up a bit. Slit grabs the wrench with both hands and twists, hard enough to hurt Nux's shoulder that's suddenly twisting too in it's socket and to escape the sting of pain Nux has to turn his back to his mate. He should just let go of the wrench, and why isn't he fighting back properly, and why isn't Slit?

The thought is cut short by Slit slamming him against the wall, face-first, pushing the air out of his lungs, his left arm gripping Nux's arm in a painful lock behind his back. Nux coughs and laughs when he can catch a breath again.

” You can keep your tool, take it!” he says, mock-terrified, and lets go of the wrench. It is yanked off his hand and by the sound of it, thrown across the corridor. The loud, purposeful clatter makes Nux blink. The sound is violent in the easy silence that has been cradling the abandoned corridors and workshops. Slit tightens his grip on Nux's arm. He slaps his other hand across the back of Nux's head and pushes his face against the cool-warm rock surface and presses his whole body against his back.

” It doesn't bother me, I just told you that, brother mine,” Slit says somewhere near his left ear, his voice rough like gravel. Nux can feel his breath on his ear. Then the hand clamping the back of his head is gone. Slit isn't quite tall enough for Nux to suprise now with a well-aimed headbutt to give him a bloody nose, and there is a long moment, several heartbeats (several fluttering heartbeats), where Nux should have already reacted but he doesn't. His arm hurts mildly in the vice-like grip of his mate but he doesn't move – why _isn't he moving?_

He's still embarrasingly hard inside his pants riding too low on his bony hips now that only one belt is buckled. The unrelenting weight of the warm body pressed against his back isn't helping any.

Slit's hand is on his belt. His only buckled belt. Nux looks down, half surprised, half losing the remainder of his breath. He's still wearing the gloves. His hands are big and square, with startlingly long and nimble fingers and he does a quick, effortless job with the buckle that gave Nux himself so much trouble. Nux just looks in dumbstruck awe. His right hand has been free all this time and he's just pressing his forearm against the wall and leaning his forehead against his arm, and Slit's fingers slow down, hesitate, curl into a fist and open again and.

Then that hand is on him, over his trousers, but still grapping him through the stiff fabric and squeezing. Nux doesn't even jump. He feels his jaw fall slack and eyes flutter shut as he all but melts into that cupping hand.

The oddest feeling – Slit is pressing his face against his back, his nose between Nux's shoulderblades, the cold rim of the goggles there, the hot small puffs of Slit's breath against his bare skin.

The grip on his left arm loosens, is less violent. The hand that squeezed his bicep hard enough to bruise spreads flat against his back, then the arm uncurls from around his, setting him free, and he does not move, he doesn't want to, even though he has no idea where to put his newly freed hand. Slit, on the other hand, seems to have no trouble finding an use for his own. His fingers (still wearing the gloves) curl around the sharp bone of Nux's hip, fingertips and blunt fingernails digging into the sensitive skin.

” You didn't want the tool, then”, Nux offers, trying to sound normal but his voice comes out sounding strange, thick and husky.  
Slit's lips move against his back. It makes Nux swallow down, dry and hard.  
” No, I did not want that tool”, he says pointedly, quiet, raspy (joe almighty, that gravel in his throat, that threatening distant roar and rattle), the voice of his lancer, his mate, his brother, it makes his insides flip like he was in a rolling car. ”It was useless with your vehicle, but I think I've got my hands on something else that makes your motor run, brother.”

The last words are whispered into the skin covering the bumps of his spine. Nux just shoves his shaking left hand down the front of his pants and grabs himself, and Slit grabs his hand through the fabric.

Slit is moving against his back. Pressing his hips against Nux's arse. Something long, and hard, and hot, pressing against his arsecheeks. It feels – it feels weird, like sometimes when they wrestle and fight, there's the odd moment when a mate's junk is pressed against some part of your body, and it's normal, and it doesn't feel much like anything, but this definitely feels not- _not_ like anything, and Nux pushes back until the hard length is directly in between his arsecheeks.

Slit momentarily loses the rythm of their hands and Nux can feel his mouth open against his back. His stomach lurches strangely, sweetly, at the feeling of his mate's lips dragging against his skin. Slit's hands fumble, he loses his grip on Nux's hip only to hastily wrap his entire forearm across Nux's flat stomach for better leverage. He pushes against him, again and again, a long-slow drag of heat between his arsecheeks, and it definitely feels strange, and good. But not as good as Slit's tightly gripping hand guiding his own hand inside his pants, their combined movement in the same rythm as Slit's hips. Nux's palm feels wet and slick and too hot and he momentarily escapes Slit's grip and rolls his slippery palm desperately across the aching head of his cock.

Slit lets out an unhappy-sounding growl when Nux pries his hand out of his grip.  
His right hand disappears from Nux's crotch, but doesn't hang useless: Slit slinks his arm under Nux's and grabs his shoulder, curling fingers around his jutting collarbone and pushing him down against his rolling hips. Nux's muscles feel like he's been running for too long and feels like he's swimming in used motor oil, everything seems to happen too slowly, everything except the warm, aching drag-press of Slit's hard cock against his arse and he does not want it to stop, and he does not want that Slit is unhappy, so he removes his hand (hot, wet, too hot, fingers shaking and almost useless) off himself and grabs Slit's wrist and pries his fingers off his shoulder.

Glove on or off? He stops to think hazily, pulse fluttering almost at a choking speed on either side of his neck, and his lancer, he reads his thoughts like they were his own and growls ”Off”, sounding like he's holding his breath (is he holding his breath, his wide chest straining against Nux's back?), and Nux pulls Slit's hand up towards his mouth and starts to pull the grease-stained leather off with his teeth. This makes Slit stop his restless moving, his mouth is open again, at least now he's breathing, fast, fast, against Nux's skin. The glove is off. Nux spits it at their feet and the flickering, fluttering thought carries him, and blindly he bites the tip of Slit's calloused finger, not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to make Slit shiver-jump and then he just unapologetically shoves his mate's hand down and inside his pants.

Slit seems to be only too happy to oblige. He gropes around eagerly – splays his roughened fingers against Nux's abdomen that is so sensitive that it almost makes Nux yelp and jump away from the touch, but he is pinned against the wall by the weight of his mate and he just has to endure, now Slit's making a wide V with his fingers and dragging-pushing his hand down to the base of his jutting cock, and all of a sudden there's pleasure, like sharp, bright spikes shot into his spine.

” Fuck, for immortansake. _Fuck_.”

Slit almost groans, his voice even more hoarse than before. He pushes himself off from Nux's back, flips him around and even before Nux has had the chance to regain his balance or mourn the loss of the lovely heat against his arse, Slit has reversed their positions and is pulling Nux flush against his heaving chest, leaning his back against the unrelenting stone and kicking Nux's long legs apart so that he can push his thigh in between Nux's. With his left hand he grabs Nux's arse and slams their pelvises together hard enough to probably hurt, but both of them are very fucking familiar with pain and half-delirious at this point.

His right hand feverishly finds its way right back in there where Nux wants it to be right now and grabs him, calloused and warm. Frustrated, Nux first rips open the top button of his pants and then attacks Slit's belts and buttons with shaking, unsteady fingers. Slit lets out a low sound, like a distant engine purring, and leans back to offer him easier access, and it feels like Nux's heart jumps and lurches and his hands are just too clumsy. His hands that are usually steady and almost cocksure are now trembling and too-hot, but finally he succeeds and there is room for him to enter, they're not patient enough to take any more garments off so this will do. Nux's searching fingers brush something almost searinlgy hot and sleek and and strangely familiar yet unfamiliar – there has been shared wanks, of course there has been, hushed and raucious at the same time, but he has never – touched -

He runs his long, long fingers up and down the length that's like hard iron but also soft like the surface of water and marvels at the feeling, eyes half-shut and a with a little lop-sided smile.  
  
Slit curses from under his breath, one sharp-edged word, delivered like a blessing. The muscles in his stomach ripple. Nux stares, fascinated, half forgetting his own lust in wonderment of seeing someone else coming apart at the seams before his eyes. The hand that had been groping Nux's arsecheek clasps on the small of his back and forces their bodies together, making Nux lose a little of his precarious balance, crushing both their hands and junk between the embrace and almost causing Nux to give Slit the bloody nose he had considered before with his shoulder. Slit jerks his head to avoid the collision and of course, slams his skull against the stone wall. This time the curse is not soft at the edges.

Nux giggles, he can't help it, then apologetically puts his hand between the rock and Slit's head, scarred and hardened knuckles agaist the stone and palm against the slightly prickly scalp, and wonders, briefly, how small his mate's round skull feels in his hand. Silt throws him a dark glance. Slit is his lancer and it's Nux's duty to protect him. He smiles fondly at the thought and Slit probably finds it either offensive or annoying because he snorts quietly through his nose and then twists his wrist in a way that makes Nux gasp and briefly lose his already flickering touch with reality. Blood rushes through his veins roaring like a rising storm. The determined movement of his mate's hand, and his hand (the pistons of an well-oiled engine, a beautiful engine), they can do this in wordless unison, in perfect rythm, like everything they do, the perfect combination of driver and his lancer.

Nux's chest tightens briefly, making breathing harder, even if they both are already panting and gulping in air in equal measures. Slit's free hand is roaming hungrily all over his body: running down the straining muscles of his back, splayed, palm flat and fingers wide agaist his chest or his stomach, undoubtedly feeling the roar of his blood under the pale, scarred skin, grabbing, grabbing at his slender hips. Is there no memory from before, no memory in their hands, of their bodies, already familiar but not like _this_ – ?

Nux pulls at his mate, then frees both his hands and grabs his arse, sliding down so they are more aligned and grinds into Slit's groin, practically lifting him up against the wall. His strangled breath comes out as an almost desperate, low groan. His boots scrape against the ground to find purchase, then he settles with putting one foot against the wall, his thigh between Nux's legs, and pushing back with it.

The presence of another body is familiar, yet so different. Their bodies collide daily, friendly and unfriendly, natural and plain as dust, and this... this is further from those encounters than the pale moon is from the killing sun. The press of hard-soft, dusted, sweat-moist flesh against his is so sweet that it almost hurts his stomach. No, it actually hurts his stomach, and his chest, something in his chest, that yawns and opens and becomes greedy and demands closer, closer.

He's letting go of Slit's arse in favour of wrapping both his arms around Slit as tightly as possible, his other hand easily wrapped around his scar-littered waist and the other round his back, his hand holding Slit down by the neck. Their bodies pressed flush together from chest to stomach, from stomach to abdomen, Slit's right hand stuck between them and pumping him and partly himself too, their hard cocks nestled next to each other despite the layers of cloth between and Nux pushing against Slit, to feel the hard, unrelenting heat radiating against his groin, his leg between his opened thighs and vice versa.

Slit grabs his neck, rough and almost painful and pulls himself up and against, his hips rolling obscenely and the thundering engine inside Nux's head and low in his abdomen threatens to drown everything with its deafening thrum-thrum-thrumming. Slit seems to enjoy it, his scarecrow grin widens briefly as Nux manages to catch one dazed look at his mate. His head roars and buzzes (the white-light of a sandstorm thunder flashing in the corners of his skull) the soft lapping of water is Slit's body, the parts where there are no scars and the skin is soft and pale and where his fingers roam, his fingers, and why not his lips, why not his open, wetting mouth, like how Slit's mouth opened against his spine?

Nux puts his scarred lips on the nearest surface of Slit's skin (he has to slide lower and bow his long neck to reach anywhere): against the sharp edge of Slit's once-broken clavicle, feeling the imperfection in the bone against his lips - first his lips and then his teeth and finally his hot, scraping tongue, and Slit, he draws breath through his open mouth like someone drowning. Forgets his hands, his body goes spring-tense, trembling.

The taste of him is salty, dry, white sand and sweat, guzzolene and exhaust fumes, and it makes Nux's head spin and hum even worse, or better, Slit even smells like the engine bay of their car and the leather of his gloves.

Nux bites him, again, closing his eyes and fucking sweet and hard into the heat between Slit's straining thigh and his pulsing cock.

Slit is sinking his fingers and fingernails into his skin and Nux curses inwardly because he wanted to touch, with his curious fingers but he can't drop Slit now when he's holding him up against a wall with both his hands and grinding against him and he's coming because – because Nux bit him – and Nux feels heat surging up his neck and face, and Slit's hand is still gripping his cock and it's moving, coarse thumb running over the slick-almost-hurting-but-good head once, twice, sweetimmortan. The V8 roars and everything goes dark, or bright, except the pressing, intoxicating warmth of Slit's sweaty bone-hard dust-soft body between him and the cool stone. Someone cries out, hoarse and low, panting, and another, less hoarse, softer, huskier voice joins in, almost sobbing.

His heart is still fluttering behind his temples when the smoky darkness that took his senses starts to fade away. He's leaning against the wall with both his hands but Slit is still there, pinned between him and the wall, now standing on his own two legs (do they feel as unsteady and unreliable to carry his weight as his?) and meticulously wiping his hand against Nux's pants and then, most endearingly, buttoning Nux up and buckling his belts. Nux can't but stare. Slit is determinedly not looking up for while that for Nux feels like a long time, though his head also feels muddy and delirious so it's hard to tell for how long, actually. Seems the sun has crept higher on the wall, burning more and more orange, the midday is slowly turning its deadly stare towards evening.

There is an uneven pale-pink spot on Slit's collarbone where Nux bit him. The leather glove lays forgotten on the ground next to them. The feeling of being strapped in a somersaulting vehicle seems to not have quite left Nux yet.

Suddenly he understands that the invisible line that can not be (usually) crossed has been drawn between him and his mate again. It is hidden in the dust that separates their boot-clad toes from each other (Nux's legs wider apart; Slit standing between his spread legs and Nux's arms still on either side of Slit's head). Now he's looking up, finally.

One sly dark eye, one bloodshot and pale. Nux looks at his mate and feels his lips move into a gentle smile. Slit peers at him with his good eye and Nux wonders what he sees and what he is thinking, now, that –

(Nux's eyes are wide and blue and bright like the sky stretching above them. Slit thinks his eyes are fucking spectacular.)

Slit lifts his hand and taps, with his forefinger, at Nux's arm, to signal him that it's time to let him go. Nux pushes himself away from the wall and puts his weight to his still rubbery legs. The insides of his pants feel clammy and uncomfortable and he has to adjust himself, crumpling his face in slight disgust. Slit seems to be in no discomfort whatsoever. He picks up his glove and then walks over to the monkey wrench tossed all across the bay, and picks it up with no hurry. Nux watches his turned back, watching the muscles moving when Slit puts the wrench back to it's place in the workshop wall and marvels at the memory that is still simmering on the palms of his hands, the memory of the feel of that body. Now he remembers. It's weird. It's lovely.

Yet he feels a pang of – hunger? Guilt? Sadness? It's yawning somewhere inside his ribcage.

” That was ... nice,” Slit finally offers. ” What do you say, brother mine, if we fix this car of ours now that we've fixed that coughing motor of yours?”

Nux pouts at him, suspicious, waiting for the real sting, but can't help smiling. Slit is not smiling but observing him from the corner of his eye.

” Brother, I'd be only glad to help, if you first show me how my shine lancer puts together a busted carborator,” Nux grins triumphantly and flops on the floor, crossing his legs and looking at Slit in happy anticipation. Slit all but growls at him, making a rude gesture with his hand and Nux retaliates by unblinking ”come at me”, almost hopefully, but Slit purses his lips and grabbing the first tool he can reach, dives into the motor.

Like nothing happened. Nux is still catching his breath and waiting for his pulse to slow down it's insane fluttering, yet here they are, like nothing happened.

He remembers now, though. In his hands. Now he remembers.


End file.
